


same sky, same moon

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Niccolò Fares, Post-Canon, literally this is just a bunch of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 19:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16561973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Marti and Nico are (kind of, almost) the last men on earth.





	same sky, same moon

**Author's Note:**

> Some fluff, yeah? In the midst of this week ❤️ This takes place I'm imaging about a year from now.

“Wake up.”

Breath on his temple. The side of the bed sinking. Fingers through his curls. Nico hears it as if he’s underwater: muffled and swooshy.

“Hmm?”

“Wake up,” Marti repeats, this time gently tickling Nico’s cheeks with his fingertips, cupping the side of his heavy face above the pillow. His palm is warm and worn.

Nico nods into his hand, eyes pried open for only a second — too heavy to stay that way. They flutter shut again, but the rest of his face rises in a sleepy grin. “Why?” He whispers, smiling.

The room is still dark. His body’s only been sleeping for a few hours. The lack of humming motors and chatter through his open window remind him it must be the middle of the night.

“I have a surprise for you. Open your eyes.” Marti sounds sluggish but excited. Like maybe he’s only been awake for a minute himself.

Nico feels the mattress shuffle, the static of the pillowcase raise his hair. The blanket tangles around their legs, trapping them together. And when he does what Marti asks, his eyes adjusting to the dark, a smiling Marti is just inches away from his face. Bed head. Big eyes. God they are so big and pretty. So deep brown Nico can’t see the pupils. Ringed with long eyelashes and freckles.

“Hi,” Nico sighs. He tips his nose up and his neck down, making Marti brush his cheek with his thumb. Eyes closed again. He’s so sleepy.

“Hi,” Marti repeats. “C’mon. Let’s get up.”

“Okay,” Nico chuckles. Quiet but not listless. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to move. He makes that known by hooking his leg around Marti’s, his knee in the back of his thigh. His body language the opposite of what he’s just agreed to do.

Marti breathes out a laugh. Traces his thumb up Nico’s face until he’s playfully lifting his eyelid open. “Wake _up!”_

“I’m awake,” Nico protests, but he scrunches his eyes closed against the pressure of Marti’s thumb in smugness, tighter when Marti laughs and tries to lift them open.

“C’mon! Asshole.”

 _“Asshole,”_ Nico mocks him. Incredibly fond — he never really liked being called an asshole until it became a term of endearment. Only Marti could make it one. “Okay. I’m really awake now. What do you have for me?”

“Well, we have to get out of bed.”

Nico rolls over and fake snores. Then laughs at a light punch to the shoulder. Another _asshole_ is spat his way between an offended chuckle, and he feels the other side of the bed rise as Marti gets up. Then cold hands on his ankles, a pull. As he slides down the mattress, his shirt ruffling up his sides.

Marti is literally dragging him out of bed.

“Fine — fine!” Nico splays his legs so Marti lets go, huffing from the exertion. “I’ll get up.”

Marti throws a sweater at him. Some pants.

“I have to get _dressed?”_ Nico flops back down on the bed, and Marti looks half-ready to sling him over his shoulder and carry him out the door in his underwear.

Marti kneels beside him on the bed, dragging his arms over his face and accidentally shoving Nico’s head through the left arm hole of the sweater. “Baby…” 

He says it in English. And Nico thinks, because of Marti’s tone of voice, that he’s literally calling him an infant. Makes sense, as Nico continues to be giggling dead weight and allowing Marti to dress him. But it sounds sweet nonetheless.

“Listen, I won’t make you pedal. You can sit on the back of the bike.”

Nico hums, then sits up — his elbows on his knees. “How kind. What’s my surprise?”

“It’s not far.” Marti looks at the pants on the sheets next to Nico, a little out of breath from wrestling the sweater on him. “You’re not going to make me — right? Or —”

“—No,” Nico laughs. And he finishes getting ready despite still wanting to mess with Marti. Socks and shoes and an extra layer for the late November night. No questions asked.

Closing the door quietly behind them, they grab the bike. Its wheels spin in little clicks on the way down the landing, and they make more noise than not shushing each other and snickering in the wake of their echoing footsteps.

Marti steadies the bike, lopsided — one foot on the pedals and one foot on the ground. He looks over his shoulder at Nico, his face tender in one of those crooked smiles. “Ready?”

Rome’s air is warm, even in the fall. It doesn’t cool down when it breezes past Nico’s face. Not that he can feel it with his cheek pressed against Marti’s back, the hood of his jacket flopping over his forehead.

The bike, even since Halloween, seems to be reserved for special occasions.

Nico wraps his arms around Marti’s waist — solid and soft. Forearms overlapping and palms loose on the sides of his stomach. He feels the muscles of it move when Marti’s legs switch on the pedals — up and down. Nico closes his eyes. The _woosh. woosh. woosh._ of the pedals and the bike chain like a slow metronome — they match his thumping heart: steady and even but heavy with feeling. Pausing when Marti cruises. Faster when he picks up again. Clacks of the gears on the uneven cobblestone.

He’s realized he hasn’t even asked where they’re going, then wonders why that thought hasn’t crossed his mind.

Nico opens his eyes, and they’re crossing the Tiber. Yellow lights sparkling in the river.

It doesn’t really matter. He’ll find out soon enough, and wherever it is, Marti will be there.

Nico hugs him a little tighter, squeezing a little hum out of Marti he can feel vibrate down in his belly against his ear.

It permeates his bones, rattles them with love. He has never met someone so caring and silly and devoted and —

Marti parks the bike, and before Nico takes in his surroundings he presses his forehead to the middle of Marti’s back, rubs his nose against his jacket. Kisses his spine.

Piazza Venezia looms long to their right. Piazza del Popolo to their left. Both in that orange glow of the Roman night. String lights cross over them in waves, from one piazza to the next — white and blue for the holiday.

“Via del Corso?” Nico asks, one eyebrow raised. He follows Marti off the bike, who walks it beside them in the middle of the road.

“You said you wanted to go window shopping. Without anyone bothering you.”

Nico steps towards him, heart wobbly as it travels up to his throat. Sometimes it doesn’t know where to go when Marti does stuff like this. Sometimes it swells, sometimes it sinks, sometimes it shakes. Like it doesn’t quite know what to do with not only the love it feels, but with the love it receives.

A quick glance to the left. The right. No one is around, and for a moment, Nico lets go of fear and imagines that they are, in fact, the last men on earth. Only he doesn’t feel scared or sad. Not at all.

“I did,” Nico whispers. And he finds Marti’s free hand with his own and hooks his pinky around each finger until it finds its equal.

Marti looks over, slightly down at him. He gives him that soft face — the one with pursed lips and big big eyes. Childlike, but not really. More just intimate and authentic. It’s the face Nico’s only seen Marti make at him. (His heart wobbles again, this time resting on his tongue.) But Nico’s favorite thing is when the softness breaks out into a full blown smile. Big front teeth and rising cheeks and _how do his eyes do that?_ It’s like they are smiling, too. They practically sparkle, this time with flecks of orange and white and blue. Nico is utterly lost in them.

“What do you want to look at?” Marti asks, and they step slowly down the middle of the road, the bike spinning next to them. Their pinkies clasped together. He sounds so honest and earnest.

Nico can’t look away. How could he? “You.”

**Author's Note:**

> say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
